


Owls! (Screamed the Moose)

by yungdreams



Category: Twin Peaks
Genre: Chinese imperialism, Coffee, Crack, F/M, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Owls, Pie, Spoilers, Tibet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 15:23:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9826286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yungdreams/pseuds/yungdreams
Summary: Cooper and Audrey have a surreal time.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [earlgreymanatee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreymanatee/gifts).



> An extremely sarcastic gift for earlgreymanatee, whose work is awesome and I wholeheartedly recommend.
> 
> Ya girl pulled out most/some of the stops for this bitch. It's prosepoetic like all the other shit I write but even lazier. If you jerk off to this I'll come to ya goddamn house and personally suck you off.

Cooper was laying about in his room at the Great Northern, awash in the smell of cured conifer on the warmed sheets. He was thinking about posting on his favorite usenet newsgroup, alt.food.coffee-lovers. The room had a curling dimness to it, like a candle flame guttering on a waxy stump. He heard a knock at the door.

It was Audrey.

Her outfit was a card motif, all whites and reds with a glossy, shellacked sheen, festooned with lace and frills, her soft pink skin enclosed in porcelain attire. She had the faint aroma of cinnamon and pussy. In the opinion of the author, she could get it.

“Hello, Audrey,” said Cooper. “Was there something you needed to speak to me about?”

“Hello, Agent Cooper,” intoned Audrey sexfully. Cooper thought the whole affair with the room and everything was quite Camuslian, although he opted not to say anything.

Just before Cooper could elucidate his thoughts on the case and generally on straight M/F pairings with such an intense age difference, he was overtaken by a psychic vision.

In his dream, Cooper was in a strange, red room, probably in Tibet. The drapes were crushed red velvet, swaying in the light of the studio soundstage, with all the fragrance and grace of red velvet cake, almost like the fragrance and grace of blue velvet, only red, and like cake, and not fabric.

There was a little man here in a red suit. He spoke backwards, but Cooper could understand every word.

“You should order some pie,” said the man in the red suit, only backwards and fucked-up sounding. “It’s very good. Get coffee too. Ask for Audrey.”

Audrey? thought Cooper. I know that name.

“Her flesh is young and supple,” mused the little man. 

Cooper was fond of supple things, mostly Douglas firs. He wondered if he could eat a Douglas fir.

There was a Laura Palmer lookalike. She was engrossed in a Sudoku puzzle.

“What’s your favorite blend of coffee?” asked the little man in the red suit.

“You know, Leland Palmer killed me,” said Laura Palmer’s cousin, not looking up from her Sudoku.

“Laura Palmer has a good point,” said Cooper. “I’ve got to get a hold on this murder case. I’ve got to figure out who killed Laura Palmer.”

“I generally like Arabica,” said the little man. “I have some good news for you. That girl who’s in love with you is in your room.”

It was at that point that Cooper was awoken from his prophetic and very surreal dream.

“Diane, these Quaaludes are very powerful,” said Cooper to no one in particular.

Audrey straddled him. Her eyes had the hungriness of some kind of nocturnal, predatory bird with large eyes and a flexible neck. As she arched her back and loomed over him, her lips, fat, cherry-red painted, and wet, overtook Cooper’s vision like the beginning bump of Rocky Horror. Her whole body had an uncanny lightness to it, a syrupy-sweet beauty dripping with the kind of anticipation only a government agent could slake. She pawed at his cock through his black suit pants and giggled.

“Is this your gun?” she cooed. Cooper was suddenly reminded that owls coo.

“Audrey, you know full well that my gun is in my shoulder holster, here inside my coat. Firearm accidental discharge caused 105,000 nonfatal and fatal accidents in the United States in 1991 alone. Good trigger discipline is a must.”

Pigeons coo, Cooper corrected himself nonverbally. Owls hoot.

“Can I put it in my mouth?” hooted Audrey, trailing two fingers around his dick, working the shaft with a full arm movement.

Audrey thrust Cooper’s hard pie slice into her mouth and slobbered on it as one categorically does with pie. Cooper remarked out loud that Audrey’s head also looked like a pie slice, if you squinted and tilted your head back very far, although you couldn’t tell what the filling was.

“You’re so funny, Agent Cooper!” gargled Audrey. She was throating him now. Cooper was busy thinking about owls. There was saccharine juice running down Audrey’s thighs.

“Have you ever been to Tibet?” asked Cooper.

“No,” said Audrey. “Wanna put cigarettes out on my breasts?”

“Goodness, Audrey, that sounds painful.”

“Anything for you, Agent Cooper.”

The smoke curled upwards from the stubby white cylinders, reminding Cooper of the steam rising from coffee, if it were blue. They smelled acrid and nose-curling, also like coffee that had been brewed in an incorrect manner. Each glowing cherry of each cigarette left a cherry-red burn, sore on Audrey’s white skin. All of these smells were very American. 

Audrey laid back, her legs curled, her butt exposed, her thighs slick with sweat. Moving her panties aside, Cooper pushed his hard cock inside her soft folds, like the push of the Chinese Nationalist Army into Tibet in 1834.

Cooper fell comatose with another prophetic vision. In it, he was enjoying a nice slice of pie, thrusting his cock into its mooshy fillings, while also eating a slice of pie with an intravenous drip of black Great Northern coffee. With every thrust, he sent filling debris flying all over the carpet. The pie on his dick kept moaning, but it sounded like Albert Rosenfield screaming, flicking spittle onto his face. An owl eyed him with a judgmental look. Hawk was there. He cleaned a Bowie knife and said something that was clearly and racistly written by a white person.

Audrey howled with all of the fervor of somebody being fucked pretty hard. She had one hand sawing away at her clit, and as the two of them reached a feverpitched crescendo, Audrey squirted, a ribbonlike torrent of clear fluid jettisoning from her privates, splashing across Cooper’s uniform.

“This fic is now illegal to distribute in the United Kingdom,” said Cooper.

Audrey confessed her love to Cooper, who thought about the possibility of a coffee-flavored pie. This absentmindedness was not the result of Cooper turning a blind eye to Audrey; rather, he loved her very much.

Cooper got down on his knees and shoved his head between Audrey’s thighs. He thought about the declining status of the Pacific Northwest as an industrial center, the rising costs of stumpage, and the very real scenario that is Chinese management, export, and logging industry overtaking much of the U.S.’s domestic lumber production—which, of course, was more related to the issue of the Chinese economic slump and the willingness to undercut American lumber prices at market (Daniels 2005). Juice ran down his cheeks like he was eating a peach with a vagina.

“I saw an owl person crossing the street once. There was a convention going on at one of the hotels in town. It was very frightening,” Cooper reported, although it came out more garbled-sounding around the topography of Audrey’s vulva, and also like if you attempting to talk into a dribbling showerhead.

“Owls are hot,” shrieked Audrey coolly.

“Diane, this is very surreal,” remarked Cooper brightly.

“You’ve called me Diane four times now. Wanna put it in my ass?” inquired Audrey of the agent.

“It’s almost as if you’re a slice of pie—black cherry pie, in fact,” Cooper told Audrey, as his Douglas fir-hard cock stretched the nubile post-teen’s asshole. Audrey moaned like a motorcycle failing to start.

Audrey screamed something about cream filling. Cooper pistoned away into Audrey’s butt like the schematic for some kind of futuristic, fleshy train. Her latent horniness was so omnipresent that it seemed to rise on the air, shimmering like heat waves from the sweat and fucking and other activities. The moose on the wall yawned loudly.

“Free Tibet,” said Cooper.

Cooper blew his considerable load on Audrey’s face; the volume and splattering stickiness of it not unlike a kid self-owning his face with a can of silly string. His cum was piping hot and coffee-colored; Cooper surmised he must have a prostate infection or something. He fired the revolver through his jacket and into the stuffed moose’s head on the wall, which was very surreal.

I wonder if this is what the First People’s Political Consultative Conference was like? thought the moose, who was also an owl.

Cooper awoke from his vision. There was a knock at the door. When Cooper crossed to it, it opened and there stood Audrey, wearing a trenchcoat.

She fired several rounds into his abdomen, the bullets corkscrewing, tearing with an almost infinitesimal slowness through Cooper’s supple flesh. He toppled, hitting the ground like a person who has been shot.

“I love you,” said Audrey tearfully. Her pussy was dribbling on the floor like a faucet that somebody in the house keeps forgetting to twist fully so that it would stop leaking.

Audrey purred through the tears rolling down her face. Cooper realized that he was the owl all along.

Diane, this is very surreal, thought Cooper.

It is, said Diane.


End file.
